Eight

“The last time I saw you,” Mulheisen said, “you were counting quarters. Where's Tall-Dark-and-Handsome?”

Mandy Cecil shrugged.

“You mean you're here alone?” Mulheisen was aghast. Brandywine's was not exactly the place for an unaccompanied beautiful redhead, unless she happened to be a prostitute. It wasn't so much that she would be bothered by the customers, although she would certainly have no deficiency of lewd offers, but that when she left, the neighborhood was extremely dangerous.

“I'm not exactly alone,” she said. She nodded toward the room outside which they were standing. The Spanish voices were as voluble as ever.

“Friends of yours?” Mulheisen asked.

“Sort of,” she said diffidently. “But I spotted you passing by, so I—”

“Why don't you introduce us?” Mulheisen said. He pushed the door further ajar and stepped past her into the room. The talking stopped. There were about a dozen men in the room, most of them fairly young, sitting around a large poker table. They were not playing poker, however. It looked like an informal meeting of some sort. They were all drinking beer. All of the men turned to look at Mulheisen.

Mulheisen bared his fangs in a more or less friendly fashion and gazed back at them. Mandy rushed to fill the silence.

She spoke in Spanish, at first, something about "muy bueno amigo, Señor Mulheisen.” She took Mulheisen by the arm and led him forward, gesturing toward an extremely handsome young man in his late twenties. “Mul, this is Angel. And this"—she turned to a middle-aged man with a somber expression—"is Francisco.” She went around the table, naming each man by his first name only. Each man stood and nodded slightly with a smile.

Angel grinned broadly, displaying gleaming white teeth under a thick mustache. “I am so happy to meet Mahn-dee's frans, señor. Weel you have a cerveza?” He gestured with a beer bottle. “Or tequila, perhaps.” There was a bottle on the table.

“No, thanks,” Mulheisen said. “I just bumped into Mandy in the hall. Sounded like you were having a party, but it doesn't look like it.” He looked around innocently. “Business, is it?”

Angel laughed delightedly. “Oh, no, señor. It is much too late for business. We are indulging in that time-honored pastime of the exile—plotting revolución!”

The others laughed—uneasily, Mulheisen thought. The dour old man growled, "Bufón.”

“Don't be so groucho, Francisco,” Angel said gaily. “These Yanquis are well aware that we only plot. Only the CIA can make revolución, eh? But we have the luxury of talking about it.”

“Where is this revolution taking place?” Mulheisen asked.

“Nowhere!” said Angel. “Only in our cabezas. Ha ha! But if the CIA will permit, we would have our revolución in that most far-flung province of Soviet Russia, otherwise known as Cuba.” The latter statement had a bitter tinge to it.

The burly Francisco rose now and put a heavy hand on Angel's shoulder. “Angel,” he said kindly, and the younger man subsided in his chair.

Francisco turned to Mulheisen with a sad expression. “Mi amigo, he is having too many of Cuervo Especial. It is as he says, señor: we have the luxury of talk.”

Mulheisen nodded amiably. “You are Cubans, then?” There was a general chorus of "Si,” but out of the corner of his eye Mulheisen caught someone who had risen quietly and was on the point of stepping out of the room. Mulheisen turned quickly. “And you? You are also Cuban?”

The man stopped halfway through the door. He was a slight, sallow-faced figure in a nicely cut blue pin-stripe suit, in contrast to the others, who wore bright shirts and tight pants. The slender man smiled slightly. “No, Señor Mulheisen, I am not Cuban.”

“But you are South American,” Mulheisen said.

“Yes, I am,” the man said with scarcely a hint of an accent.

“Brazilian, perhaps?”

The man pursed his lips irritably, then replied, “Bolivian.” He went out then, closing the door behind him.

Mulheisen turned to Mandy. “You about ready to go?” She picked up her large leather purse from a chair and slipped the strap over her shoulder. Then she waved to the circle of men.

“Adiós!” they chorused enthusiastically.

Mulheisen grinned. “Adiós, amigos.”

Mandy took his arm and led him from the room. Mulheisen liked her hand on his arm because it brought his arm into contact with a firm but unbrassiered right breast.

In the hall she muttered, “Always the snoop.”

“I get paid to snoop,” he said. “Which reminds me: why are you here?”

“It's a free country,” she said.

“This place isn't free,” Mulheisen said.

She smiled and leaned closer. He could smell her perfume, mingled with a sweet musty odor. “This isn't a raid, is it?” she asked.

“I haven't made up my mind,” Mulheisen said.

“A one-man operation?”

“What's the matter, you don't think I could take them?” he replied.

“Oh, don't be silly,” she said, losing interest in the repartee.

They walked into the little barroom where the quartet was still ticking along like a good clock. A rather fantastic creature was standing next to Benny. He was six and a half feet tall with a creamy-brown complexion and thick, velvety lips formed in a perpetual pout. He wore an enormous wide-brimmed hat with a long feather drooping out of the crown. He also wore a calf-length fur coat that appeared to be made out of an entire generation of Arctic foxes. He looked out at the world through huge, pale-blue spectacles and flourished a long ivory cigarette holder.

The creature waved his free hand languidly at Mandy and said, “Ah declayuh, Miss Mandy, ah'd sho love to jump on yo’ bones.”

Mulheisen flushed, but Cecil replied airily, “Jump, Mother Rabbit, jump.”

The man laughed, displaying his gold teeth, and slapped Benny on the back. Benny coughed. “Benny,” the man gushed, “this delicious kumquat is known as Mandy. Now, don't y'all wish you was Rastus? But this other person . . .” He frowned, looking at Mulheisen with obvious distaste.

“That's my friend I was telling you about,” Benny said.

“I believe I've seen your friend before,” the man said. He extended a bejeweled hand on a long arm and Mulheisen shook it briefly. “I'm Brandywine,” the man said, “and you are Fang.”

“Fang!” Mandy Cecil said. She looked at Mulheisen and laughed.

Mulheisen smiled, demonstrating his teeth. He stared into Brandywine's eyes. “Call me Mulheisen,” he said.

Brandywine tossed his head extravagantly. “Do I have to?” he said.

Mulheisen laughed. “Let's go,” he said to Cecil. “I think I've got a ride,” he told Benny. “See you later.”

It was very dark outside Brandywine's. Most of the street-lights had been broken by vandals, or perhaps on Brandy-wine's orders, to protect the anonymity of his customers. But it was not a nice neighborhood. Many of the buildings were abandoned and boarded up. A brisk breeze reminded Mulheisen and Mandy that it was late October. They set off in the direction of Mandy's car.

Almost immediately Mulheisen heard the gritty sibilance of footsteps on the pavement behind them. After a half block Mulheisen turned and stopped. The steps ceased. Mulheisen could see nothing. They walked on, and a few steps later he heard the sound behind them again. It sounded as if it were two people. He stopped and flicked his coat open, drawing his .38. He held the gun out before him so that if anyone could see, they would see the gun.

“Beat it,” he told the darkness.

The only reply was a low chuckle.

Mulheisen was aware that Mandy Cecil had stepped away from him and he heard the sound of her purse being unsnapped.

“All right, then,” Mulheisen said flatly, “come on.”

After a few seconds they heard the footsteps of two people walking swiftly away. Mulheisen holstered the .38 and took Mandy's arm as they walked on.

She unlocked the driver's door of a large car and got in, leaning across the seat to unlatch the door for Mulheisen. He got into the car, and without closing the door he snatched up her purse. She reached for it, but he knocked her hand away. She glared at him in the yellow glow of the interior light.

“Relax,” he said. “I just want to see what prompted you to open your purse back there.” He fished inside the purse and came up with a .32 caliber Beretta automatic pistol. “Damn nice piece,” he said. “I suppose you know how to use it?”

“Of course,” she answered. “Close the door. The alarm buzzer is giving me a headache.”

Mulheisen closed the door and the interior light went out. He dropped the pistol back into the bag and set the bag between them. “You have a permit to carry that?” he asked.

“Yes.” She started the car. It was a new Ford LTD. With the aid of power steering she swiveled deftly out of the parking space and accelerated down the street. “Where to?” she asked.

“My car's parked by Pingree Park,” he said.

She stopped for a red light and looked up at the street sign. “I've always wondered why they would name a street ‘John R.,’ “ she said.

“Local bigwig,” Mulheisen said. “His name was John R. Williams. He already had one street named after him, but wanted another. So . . .”

She laughed.

As they drove out East Forest, Mulheisen said, “What were you doing with all those Cubans?”

“I wondered if you were ever going to ask,” she said. “Nosy Parker, aren't you?”

“I can't help it,” Mulheisen said.

“It's more than just the job, though, isn't it?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I thought so. Well, after Jerry and I finished with counting the coins, we went downtown to Mexican Gardens for a late snack.”

“What did you have?” Mulheisen asked.

“Tostada,” she said. “Anyway, Angel and his friends were there, as usual. We've seen them there often. I think Angel's got a crush on me, but he's so vain he can't admit it. He said they were all going to Brandy wine's and why didn't we join them. Jerry was tired and begged off.”

“Just you and twelve Cuban revolutionaries,” Mulheisen said dryly.

“They're harmless,” Mandy said. “They get all fired up and talk about overthrowing Castro, but it's all talk.”

“Why are they so mad at Castro? Wasn't Batista as bad, or worse?”

“Who knows?” Mandy said. “It's all just a lot of politics. They were all with Castro, once upon a time. I think they're angry because Castro brought in the Russians. Angel was a pilot for Fidel, but he flew his MIG to Miami when El Presidente, or whatever he calls himself, executed some so-called traitors that were friends of Angel's. And Francisco rowed to Key West in a rubber dinghy because he didn't like the Russian railroad technicians that came in. He was an engineer.”

“Some of those guys didn't look old enough to even remember the revolution,” Mulheisen said.

“They're all quite young,” she said. “Angel's got them all fired up. Him and Heitor.”

“That's the Bolivian?”

“Yes. Heitor Casabianco. He claims he fought with Che. He says that Che broke with Fidel because Castro had perverted the revolution. They devour every word Heitor says.”

“You're sure they're harmless?” Mulheisen asked.

Mandy laughed. “Whoever heard of a Cuban revolution in Detroit? They dream about getting aid from the CIA, or from right-wing groups, but that's just silly because they're farther left than Fidel.”

“This is Pingree Park,” Mulheisen said. “Named after one of our most illustrious mayors.” He directed her around the block to his old Checker, parked across the street from Benny's blind pig. It was almost four in the morning and people were still going in and out of Benny's place.

Mulheisen no longer felt so tired. “You're a fascinating lady, Mandy,” he said. “Why don't you come in for a drink?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” she said. She parked the car and locked it.

The crowd in Benny's had swelled considerably. They found themselves a semiprivate corner of the bar. Mulheisen started right out with “Why do you have a gun?”

“This is a tough town,” Mandy said. “Besides, I got in the habit when I was in the Army.”

“You ever have to use it?” he asked.

“I've had to show it a few times,” she said. “Like tonight.”

“You know I'm going to check you out in the files first thing,” Mulheisen said.

She seemed unconcerned. “I'd have thought you already did.”

“No. I looked up Vanni. No record,” he said. He sipped at his Wild Turkey. “Just how close are you and Vanni?” he asked suddenly.

Mandy looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “Why, Sergeant! You're jealous!”

“I am not,” he retorted.

“And you hardly know me,” she mocked. She sipped at her drink. “We have a little something going, that's all. It isn't anything heavy. Jerry's not the type to get involved.”

“How about you?”

“I've tried it a couple of times. It was pretty hard to take when we broke up.” She laughed suddenly. “I'm sorry. It all sounded so corny, like something we used to tell boys in high school—'I don't want to be hurt again!’ “

They looked at each other with guarded amusement for a moment, then smiled. Mulheisen ordered another round of drinks. They didn't speak until the drinks came, then Mulheisen abruptly asked, “What's Vanni's involvement with the mob?”

Mandy looked exasperated. “Really! You are something, aren't you?” She shook her head. “As far as I know, he has no connections with the mob.”

“Then why all this flourish of trumpets? Someone's being awfully obvious.”

Mandy stood up and put on her jacket, then picked up her purse. “Got me, dearie. That's your job. Well, ciao."

“Hey, wait a minute. How about dinner tomorrow?”

She glanced at her watch. “You mean tonight? I can't tonight. Tomorrow night. About eight. Pick me up. But call first.”

Mulheisen curiously felt both annoyed and elated after she had gone. He had a couple of more drinks to celebrate this strange mood and was feeling quite cheerful when Benny came in. “Benny, old chap! How goes it?” he sang out.

Benny looked at him suspiciously. “How long's he been here?” he asked the bartender. He shook his head disapprovingly when he was told and then motioned for another round with a fatalistic gesture. “Mul, you ain't driving home tonight.”

“No?” Mulheisen said.

“You're drunk,” Benny said.

“An officer is never drunk,” Mulheisen assured him.

Benny warned him to keep his voice down. After the drink was downed, he managed to convince Mulheisen that coffee would be in order. For this they went next door to Benny's house. The house was much more spacious than it appeared from the outside. While the coffee was brewing, Benny showed Mulheisen where he might put in the dining room, if he decided to do that. Some rooms would have to be combined and expanded, obviously. Benny thought that the living-room fireplace might be profitably remodeled with an ornate mantelpiece and a marble hearth.

Over coffee, Mulheisen asked about Brandywine. “He say anything about Mandy after we left?”

“A little,” Benny said. “I guess she comes in there a lot.”

“Who with?”

“I don't know, Brandy didn't say.”

“What about those Cubans?” Mulheisen asked.

Benny didn't know what he was talking about. Brandy-wine hadn't mentioned any Cubans. Mulheisen dropped it.

After another cup of coffee Mulheisen asked what time it was. “Going on six,” Benny told him.

“Good God! I've got to be in court at ten-thirty.”

“You better crash here,” Benny said. “I got plenty of room. I'll see that you get up in time, have a good breakfast, and you'll be all set. You don't want to be driving clear out to St. Clair Flats now.”

Mulheisen protested, but Benny was adamant. The room was small but the bed was comfortable, and thirty seconds after he had crawled between the cool crisp sheets Mulheisen was out cold.